


Summer Storm

by windandthestars



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M, rawr exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sky darkens, seeming to swallow her up in a matter of moments and then, just as suddenly, she's outlined a shocking white against the near black horizon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Storm

He watches her for a moment, curious, drawn to the inexplicability, the vulnerability of the sight of her on the balcony wrapped not in one of his old shirts or the sheet off the bed, but swathed in a worn cream robe. It's not one he's seem before and that alone holds him transfixed. 

He’s not familiar with every piece of clothing that she owns, but he is familiar with her favorites. He knows how to predict which styles and colors she’ll favor given the weather and her mood. He knows how she packs, what she packs. He had watched her pack for this trip, and yet the robe had slipped by him, the deep cream unmistakable against her warm, glowing skin. 

When it comes to her, something this worn is inevitably sentimental. Despite the fact it's not particularly old- not like a lot of the things she owns, antiques and relics of bygone eras- it’s closely guarded and well cared for. It's an enigma, like so much of her still is to him, like this mood, this sudden shift of disposition.

He's seen her like this a couple of times: unaware, quietly withdrawn, contemplative. He lets her stand, watches her from his spot beside the mini fridge and the dent in the counter that counts as a sink.

Her hands slip silently up the sides of her arms and then fall as she sighs. He can't hear it but he's close enough to see the rapid drop of her chest, the way her chin dips down almost imperceptibly for a moment. The breeze rustles her hair and she shakes her head faintly as if answering its call.

He catches a whiff of it then, the slightest hint of what it was that had drawn her unconsciously out through the open French door, the interwoven scents of crisp salty water and the sharper tang of sun baked flesh, green and gold. It's a subtle hint, a reminder of home, of the harbor and the sound of fog horns that call late into the early morning hours.

They're not close enough to the water to see it but he can sense it there now, sense the way the wind ripples like waves picking up momentum as it draws nearer. The sky darkens, seeming to swallow her up in a matter of moments and then, just as suddenly, she's outlined a shocking white against the near black horizon.

Cold, he thinks when she shivers, but that's not it either. The air is electric, alive, as she stands in the middle of it, face upturned to meet the first of the falling droplets, the rain quickly enveloping her, hiding her from view.

Gone, he thinks fleetingly, but he knows she’s still there as the sound of her laughter carries back to him on the wind.


End file.
